


There Was Just...Nothing.

by rainymoon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Grieving Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28169880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainymoon/pseuds/rainymoon
Summary: Dean sat alone at the long wooden table in the library of the bunker. His back was as stiff as a board, and the utter silence was grating on his already frayed nerves. There was no one sitting at the table with him, no one shuffling behind him looking over books, no clattering of pans from the kitchen, no chatter from the hallways, just… nothing.Only the sound of his own breathing.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	There Was Just...Nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, and an angsty Destiel one at that. Takes place after season 15 episode 19 of Supernatural. I hope you enjoy reading (even though it's not a happy read...) and many thanks to LeandraLocke for beta-reading this for me and helping me out! ☺️
> 
> My next fics will be happier for sure, don't worry ;;

Dean sat alone at the long wooden table in the library of the bunker. His back was as stiff as a board, and the utter silence was grating on his already frayed nerves. There was no one sitting at the table with him, no one shuffling behind him looking over books, no clattering of pans from the kitchen, no chatter from the hallways, just… nothing. Only the sound of his own breathing.

He stared down at the surface of the table in front of him, dimly lit up by the warm light of the lamp sitting in the center. Multiple letters were crudely carved into the wood. Letters that meant something, meant the whole world to him. The names of his family: S.W, M.W, CASTIEL, JACK. There were so many words to describe these people, his bonds with them, each so different but so precious. But each time he tried to focus on that one particular name, a flash of that face showing up in his mind, his breath cut off and his brain threw up a good old steel wall that usually led him to the nearest bottle of booze.

His eyes drifted to the last letters carved into the table. D.W. Dean Winchester. At some point in the past, he would have had plenty to say about himself, throwing in a cheeky joke or two, gloat a bit, but now… looking at his own letters etched into the table, his mind was empty. Who was he? For so long, he had played the role of nothing but a killer. A hunter of monsters, nothing but _‘his Daddy’s blunt instrument’_. His sole purpose was to be Sammy’s big brother, to protect his family and to hunt. And now Sam had gone away on his own adventure, finally free to start writing his own story with Eileen by his side. And Jack - Jack was busy being… well, God 2.0 essentially. The kid had a lot on his plate.  
Only Dean remained stagnant, with no idea where to go from here. No prospect or goal. Just him, alone. And he had himself to thank for that. He looked at his hands, limp in his lap, and the devastating knowledge that he had failed his best friend left him speechless. He wasn’t sure who he even was anymore.

_“Everything you do, you do for love.”_

He wasn’t anything. His love had helped no one.

_“That is who you are.”_

He was just… nothing.

Dean huffed unexpectedly, feeling almost like his stomach was trying to escape through his mouth. He gasped air in, and wheezed it back out in a broken mix of a laugh and sob. There was nothing here anymore. He couldn’t even muster up any rage – the rage that had hidden his grief so well in the past, anytime he had failed at saving someone. This time there was just… nothing. Nothing but Dean and the empty bunker, and the sounds of his own choking laughter echoing along the halls.

A light flickered down the hall. Dean barely noticed it, shaking his head and violently rubbing his face. There were no tears left. He had run out of them already. The light flickered again, and Dean’s body finally fell slack against the back of the chair – his head turning to regard the hallway blandly. The light kept flickering down the hall, coming from a distant room. Dean just watched the shadows on the walls for a few moments before finally getting up to go address the damn light.

The slow walk down the hallway left Dean feeling a bit lightheaded, he didn’t even register where he was heading exactly until he reached the source of the flickering. It was a doorway. A bedroom doorway, leading into…

Cas’ room, the lamp on the side table. It was flickering weakly, as if it was breathing its last breaths.

_“You changed me, Dean.”_

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, Dean marched over to the lamp and grasped it so tightly it rattled the whole table. His mind still blank, he shook the lamp in an attempt to get it to stabilize. It just wouldn’t stop flickering though. The warm white light dimmed more and more. Like it was dying. Like each weak burst of energy it emanated was a- was some sort of a--

_“Why does this sound like a goodbye?”_

The lamp flickered once more.

_“Because it is.”_

The lamp went dark.

The room was plunged into complete darkness, and the movement of the shadows playing across the walls stopped. But Dean’s mind had already wandered into that horrible memory again, and it just wouldn’t stop playing.

Cas’ face, beaming at him through his tears that just wouldn’t stop falling, looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

Why?

_“I love you.”_

WHY?

_“Don’t do this, Cas…”_

He was not worth Cas’ love. An Angel’s love. How could an Angel love him? The memory of those words tugged at his chest, simply because of how absurd the notion was. Cas deserved so, so much better than him. Cas deserved the whole world, and Dean was just a flawed human being. Dean was no one. Dean couldn’t even manage to get his shit together in the most earth-shattering moment of his life. Cas had spoken his truth and with it, grasped his true happiness although it had cost him his life and Dean couldn’t even give Cas anything in return. Couldn’t just say “I love you too.” He agonized over that, agonized over the fact that Cas had not heard it back, had just accepted his death and welcomed it with a smile, remaining unloved while loving someone so deeply. So long as Dean got to know it. So long as Dean was saved. All of it, for _Dean-_

His grip on the now-dark lamp became violent for a split second, and moments later the thing was smashed against the wall, its pieces all over the floor. It looked like the rage hadn’t all been sapped from him just yet. And yet, with just that one act of violence, all the energy left his body as quickly as it came, and he staggered backwards, the back of his knees hitting the bed behind him.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on Cas’ bed, motionless. Staring at the smashed pieces of the lamp scattered across the floor. The dim flickering light was out, gone, just like-

Dean felt his stomach rising again, his breathing speeding up and his vision going white. It felt like his body was both shutting down and getting ready to explode at the same time. His head hurt. It hurt so bad.

_“Hello Dean.”_

Dean gasped out as those words played in his mind, that phrase he’d heard so many times before. He couldn’t listen to this anymore, couldn’t have these memories in his head. How did people recover from this? He grasped at the covers of the bed and gasped for breath uncontrollably. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this. His right hand went from being tangled in the bed sheets to gripping his left shoulder – the place where Cas’ handprint--

_“Goodbye Dean.”_

His hand shot out again and grabbed the nearest thing – the pillow at the head of the bed, and he shoved his face into it, hunching over as far as possible, just wanting to disappear. Just wanting to wake up already, have all of this be a fucked up nightmare. He would wake up, get out of bed – Sam would be waiting for him already, the crazy morning person he was, looking at him with his raised _‘exasperated little brother’_ eyebrows – and Jack would be sitting at the table, trying to figure out the easiest way to eat the sugary cereal they kept at the back of the pantry without Sam noticing – and Cas…

Cas would look over to Dean. Dean in his stupid hotdog pajamas and his awful bed-head, and his dopey sleep-ridden face – Cas would give him a once over ( _he’s an angry sleeper, like a_ bear, _apparently_ ) and finally smile at him and get up to make him some coffee. He had asked to learn how to make it for some reason, before all of this happened – Dean hadn’t understood why, since Angels don’t drink coffee. But every day, Cas would greet Dean with his coffee, just the way he liked it. He seemed almost proud, having learned this particular thing, doing this for... _for Dean._

Dean breathed into the pillow. In and out. In and out. His face pressed so tightly against it that he felt something hard inside the pillow press into his cheek. With one last deep breath, Dean drew away from the pillow in confusion. He looked down at it, trying to make out whatever was inside it. It felt hard, and almost flat. He couldn’t see well in the dark, but when he pulled out the object inside the pillowcase, his heart immediately sank. Even without light, he could make out the scribbled writing on the mix-tape in his hand - _‘Deans Top 13 Zepp Traxx’._

Cas had kept it so close to him all this time. Cas had wanted to keep Dean close to him. Cas had loved him. Cas _loved_ him.

Cas didn’t think he was wanted in the same way.

Cas was gone.

 _“I watched the man I love die.”_ A voice from long ago echoed shakily in his head, _“There’s no normal after that.”_

He breathed out a sob. The dreadful tendrils of understanding snaking their way through his mind. No normal after that…No. There is _nothing_ after that. His mind had started to leave him again, the blank devastation taking over and leaving no room for anything but the numbness he had recently gotten so used to.

He stared down at the shadow of the mix-tape in his lap. Within a few moments, it seemed to be becoming wet in his hand.

Drip. Drip.

_Guess the ceiling must be leaking again._


End file.
